Back Again

One of the best FM spanking blogs out there, D's Naughty Boy Spanking, had shut down (not certain why), but I am glad to announce that it has resurfaced once more. D is in the process of rebuilding his entire site, including all of his former pages, and with some exciting new ideas for the future. 

Please drop by his new home and help him out by joining and rebuilding his membership count, or just to welcome him back:

D's Naughty Boy Spanking Adventures

Happy Birthday to ...ME!

This weekend the blog turns one year old! 

(ok, just for the record, it was officially yesterday, but who's counting?)

Hmm - come to think of it, this gal is, who seems to think my single-paddywhack one year birthday spanking actually equates to 365 smacks...
I don't think I am in any position to raise an argument, and I seriously don't think arguing would be a good idea at this particular time...

Then again, why would I want to argue?

Saturday Smackdown

Come on, mister, it's the weekend and there's a lot of chores to do, starting with a little incentive...

Let's get those pants down - and don't you dare pout at me!

Oh no. we're not done yet. Get that hand down!

Tools of the Trade

So I was browsing around for artistic inspiration the other day, and started thinking about implements. Not just the time-honored Old Reliables - Madam's hairbrush, slipper, paddle, wooden spoon, etc. - but other, more unusual implements that might be employed for decimating deserving derrieres. 

I would love to hear about the most unusual implement you've ever used or imagined using, or being used on you. To get things started, here is my vote for a common household item which seems an obvious tool for smacking butt, but which I have never heard of being used:

WTF is that?? you ask ? 

Apparently, it's JUST a shoehorn. It certainly looks to me like the designer had a dual purpose in mind, though. After all, it seems an ideal spanking tool - long, narrow, with a wooden end slightly curved to mold nicely to the mound of a buttock. 

Conveniently, they come in various lengths, from about 16 inches to over 30. This particular model also features a horn on a flexing spring, for an added zing to the sting:

Gulp.

 They also come in different materials - plastic, rosewood, teak, beech...

Maybe I'm wrong - maybe these things are not suitable for some reason I can't fathom? 

Or maybe people are using them all the time, and I've just never come across a mention of them?

But if anyone out there has ever used one, let us know how it works! 

Or, if you have other suggestions for uncommon implements, let's hear them!

RetroFix - Kim Novak

Tall, sophisticated, elegant, and with a stare that could stop a rhino in its tracks - what spanko worth his salt would not ache to be dragged across her knee?

Stay Still !

What is wrong with you?! If you don't settle down, I'm pretty sure I can do this harder. You want to see me try?

A New, Fresh Look

So I was getting awful tired of the look of the blog, and thought I'd enliven it with a new retro-ish backdrop. Hope you like it - now that I've figured out how to do it, I will be changing it up from time to time, in a desperate, shameless plea to hopefully encourage visitors to visit often ...


New art should be coming this weekend, too.

Your Wednesday Appointment

As you walk down the hallowed halls of Abernathy College toward the Office of Correctional Services, you find yourself being stared at; students you pass throw furtive glances as you pass, and whisper once you've gone by. Your school uniform has marked you out as to your destination. You realize that the only reason for being forced to don it was to shame you as you approached the Office. As if your weren't anxious enough. Your punishment has begun before you even reach the door.

The fear gnaws at your gut like a hungry parasite, and you consider turning and running, but to do so would bring suspension, or perhaps even expulsion. You can't afford that. So you press on. How bad can it be, really? Just go in and get it over with. An hour from now you'll be back in your dorm, with a clean slate.

And then you round the corner, and the door is suddenly there in your face:

Office of Correctional Services

Ms. C. Hutchins, Counselor

You check your watch. 2:56 pm. 4 minutes early. Maybe being early will earn a small mitigation on your punishment? Maybe, maybe not. But only if you go in now. Your hand hesitates on the knob. Once you go in, you know there is no coming back out until...

Dammit. There is no escaping this. The sooner it's done, the better. You clench your jaw and step boldly inside. 

The reception looks no different than any other reception area in the school. No one is there, either waiting in the hard chairs along the walls, or behind the high reception desk. You close the door behind you ever so quietly, as though you were afraid to alert anyone you'd arrived, and sit down.

A few tense minutes pass before an attractive woman strides out of the inner office, startling you out of your shoes. She is too young and too blonde to be the notorious Ms. Hutchins. This must be Lindsay, the receptionist.  She ignores you,  and takes her seat. 

You're supposed to check in at 3, so you approach her, and wait for her to acknowledge you. She is a sweet looking girl, probably a sophomore. Under different circumstances, you might even -

THWAPP!

"Owww!"

You jump at the sudden exclamaton from the beyond the door to thin inner office.  The girl, Lindsay, does not bat an eyelash.  "Here," she says, handing you a clipboard and pen. "Fill this out and have a seat. You'll be called when Ms. Hutchins is ready."

You do as you're told, while the thunderclaps and yelps continue to penetrate the walls. Your hand is shaky, so your signature looks like a drunk wrote it. 

Finally, the sharp clapping ceases, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Not a minute passes, however, when a new sound assaults your ears, a Thwisshh, followed by a squeal. 

The pair of sounds repeat.

Again. 

Again.

And Again.

You can feel the blood draining from your face. You look pleadingly at Lindsay, but she is actually humming softly to herself, oblivious to the harsh drama going on inside. 

You hand the form back to her. She inspects it closely, then reminds you to be quiet while you wait your turn. The frightful sounds come more intermittently, but no less severe, for the next ten minutes. Then silence. 

Finally, another student emerges from the inner sanctum, his face contorted with pain, his eyes red with threatening tears. He limps awkwardly over to Lindsay and hands her a file. Examining it, she shakes her head. "Tch. Three infractions in Ms. H's presence. Really, Donald. You'd think you'd have learned your lesson by now. Another appointment next week, eh? I think I can fit you in for Friday morning. Have you any classes then? No? Right, then. We will see you at 8 am sharp. I guess I needn't remind you to be on time, do I?"

She gives him an appointment card and dismisses him. You watch with a mix of horror and something akin to awe at how he stumbles painfully out, casting you a quick rueful glance. As he leaves, you know that soon that will be you.

Another 15 minutes go by, and promptly at 3:30, the office intercom buzzes. 

Lindsay responds to it instantly. "Yes, Ma'am. Right away." She rises and stands by the inner door. She gives you an expectant stare. "All right. Ms. Hutchins will see you now. Let's go. She doesn't like to be kept waiting."

She holds the door open for you and you will yourself to comply. It's not easy, but you do it. Something in the girl's eyes compels you forward. Or is it just your male ego that doesn't want her to think you weak and scared?

Ms. Hutchins is behind her desk, reading a file. As you approach her desk, you can't help but notice the high box bench on your right, and the wall rack beyond hung with an array of straps, paddles, and canes.

"Well, Mr. _____, this is quite a report..." She proceeds to list your violations of school regs, shaking her head and sighing at the end. "It seems to me you're overdue for this office's services, wouldn't you agree?"

Her stare over the rim of her glasses is penetrating, intense. You are struck by that gaze just a moment too long.

"That was a direct question, young man. I expect an answer!"

"Uh, yes..."

"Yes, what?"

"Umm - yes, Ma'am."

She rises, rounds the desk and perches herself directly in front of you. She is an attractive brunette in her early or mid thirties, and all business in her white blouse and pencil skirt. 

She takes hold of your chin. "I am warning you, only this once, that you are not off to a good start with me. Now, if you want to improve your standing, you can begin by reciting rules 4 & 6 from my set of behavioral guidelines that you were to memorize..."

You were up half the night prepping for this very question, but you are so flustered that you make half a dozen errors. She notes every flub on your file. "A poor performance, I must say. Each mistake earns you one paddle swat.  I expect you to have the respect this office is due, and behave according to its rules. Understood?"

"Yes, Ma'am. I'm sorry."

"I doubt it. But you will be. Now let's have you over the box, shall we?"

Quite understandably, you hesitate.

"If I have to start counting, you'll receive my count in added strokes. You want that?"

"No, Ma'am!" And you hustle yourself to the box. 

"This is to be a barebottom correction, if you please."

You lower your trousers and underwear and take your proper position whilst Ms. Hutchins' heels clack loudly on the wood flooring as she approaches. She buckles your ankles to the box, then proceeds to the rack of implements in front of you. As she selects the designated implement, you can't help but notice how tightly her skirt clutches her round hips and buttocks. You feel a familiar swelling in your crotch, and wonder at it. Attractive as she might be, you do not feel aroused...... do you...?

She strides purposefully back to take up her position.

"You will keep the count. Failure to call a stroke earns its repetition. Understand?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Right, then..."

"Very well. I think we're done. You may get up now."

Easier said than done. The searing fire that Ms. Hutchins has ignited is FAR more intense than you had thought possible. Real tears are gathering in your eyes, and you feel more like a chastened nine year old than a college undergrad. 

"Come on. Don't dawdle, or would you like me to give you a little 'encouragement'?"

You push yourself back up on your feet hastily. Clenching your teeth, you squat carefully to draw up your pants.

"One moment, young man. Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Ma'am?"

"Your paddle swats for guideline errors. Or were you hoping maybe I'd forget?"

"No, not at all, Ma'am."

Whimpering, you move to resume your place again.

"No need for that. Just stand still...."

"Now you may pull up your trousers."

You hardly hear through your sobs. But you do what you're told at once, of course. Then you wait for final instructions. Ms. Hutchins makes a few notations on your file. "Am I going to see you in here again, young man?"

"No, Ma'am!" You mean it. You have learned your lesson. 

"I will hold you to that. This is your personal record. We'll keep it on file, just in case. Check out with Lindsay. Good day to you."

You waddle uncertainly out, acutely aware of how even the soft cotton of your underpants seems to scrape your raw, scorching buttocks. Outside, Lindsay offers you a small smile. "Really let you have it, did she?"

You nod, and she chuckles. "She is a talent. You're all set. See you around."

Not if you can help it, you think. On your wobbly way out, another hapless student watches you with an appalled expression. You return his look with a rueful one of your own. Behind you, the intercom buzzes...